"I can't breathe . . . I'm not gonna make it." He leans forward on the
gurney, one hand to his chest, the other reaching for mine. His hazel eyes
are filled with panic, pleading with me to do something.

This is his first MI, and it turns out to be his last. I watch from
the foot of the gurney as the team swings into action. It is a messy intubation,
complicated by his full stomach. One last trip through the breakfast bar.
Is that what pushed him over the edge?